


The Most Beautiful Thing (I've Never Seen Until Now)

by orphan_account



Series: Crème de la Crème [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Childhood Friends, Cliffhangers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Shot, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Romance, is this even angst..., or rather it's supposed to be a one-shot but i might write a sequel!, there's some jeongcheol now!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 09:19:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10085366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Every year, Joshua Hong comes back to tell you that he doesn't love you.But that doesn't stop your parents from insisting that one day – one fateful day – you'll be head over heels for him.Head over heels for Joshua Hong.Joshua Hong, the boy who lives to torment you.Impossible, right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I wrote while falling into the diamond life :3
> 
> Joshua is just... really... cute...

“Young mistress.”

You groan, burying your face into the covers and rolling onto your side.

Cracking one eye open, you squint at the grandfather clock standing opposite your bed.

11:00.

April the ninth. 

Doomsday, in other words.

Your maid, Seoyeon, clicks her tongue and crosses her arms over her chest, a disapproving half-smile on her face. “Young mistress,” she repeats. “We have a lot to do this morning. I need to fit your gown, and it isn’t wise to keep the guests waiting.”

The blankets are torn from your body with a swift tug of her arm. You shiver, but the maid refuses to relinquish her grip. "Seoyeon-ah,” you mumble, eyes narrowed at the morning sun streaming through the window. “I order you to tell them to royally bugger off. Please?”

Seoyeon chuckles. “The young master is nothing less than a gentleman. I don’t understand why you continue to refuse his family’s proposal. Now get up.”

You roll your eyes and throw your legs over the side of the bed, clasping your hands in your lap. Seoyeon crouches, pulling a pair of sheer black stockings over your bare legs.

“I appreciate your sentiment, Seoyeon-ah, but he’s nothing like the gentleman you think he is.”

And you  _know_  he isn’t. 

Ever since you met him on that fateful day in April, when you tripped over a jutting paving stone and took an unfortunate tumble into the fountain, he’s been dedicated to making your life a living hell.

You were wrong to think that that’d be the last day you ever saw his despicable face, because the following year, on exactly the same day, Joshua Hong returned with a proposal.

And not just any proposal. 

A  _literal_ proposal.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Your companion smiles, slipping a pair of low-heeled shoes onto your feet. “I wonder, Y/N-sshi.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pardon my impertinence, young mistress, but is it not true that he only gets more charming every year?”

You snort and follow her to the bejewelled vanity. She reaches into her pocket and withdraws a pair of earrings. “That might be true, but that doesn’t give him any right to be such a jerk.”

Seoyeon clucks disapprovingly, drawing the brush through your violently tangled locks. You wince as she wrenches out a particularly stubborn knot. “Now look here, Y/N,” she scolds good-naturedly. “That’s no way for a young lady to conduct herself.”

A bottle of hairspray appears in her hand, and you wrinkle your nose at the pungent smell. “If it were anyone but him, Seoyeon-ah,” you say wistfully, watching the maid wrestle with your hair. If anyone can tame your locks, it’s Seoyeon. “We can barely be in the same room without going off at each other."

An exasperated sigh leaves her mouth, but she says no more. You stand and follow her into the dressing room, your mouth falling open at this year’s gown.

Seoyeon laughs at the horrified expression on your face. “You’re not greeting them in that gown, young mistress,” she says reassuringly. You close your mouth and trail after her obediently. “It’s far too luxurious for parlour attire. Though your father would beg to differ, hm?”

You hum in agreement, eyes perusing the wardrobe. Seoyeon selects a sleeveless black collared dress, handing the padded clothes hanger to you.  You frown sceptically; the topmost third of the torso is see-through, exposing your collarbones.

The maid nods approvingly and helps you into the garment. 

Your frown rapidly grows into a full-bodied scowl. The skirt hangs about mid-thigh, which shows way too much skin to be comfortable, but Seoyeon gives you no time to protest as she rushes you into the powder room.

“Seoyeon-ah,” you object. She pays you no attention, instead deciding to push you into a chair. “This dress is tiny. I can’t go out like this –”

She hushes you, brandishing an eyeliner pen. “I apologise, Y/N-sshi, but we have very little time to prepare. Your mother is going positively mad.”

It takes her a good hour to finish your makeup. 

At the maid’s persistent shaking, you rouse yourself from your semi-slumber and stare in disbelief at your reflection.

You look...  _presentable._

Seoyeon wipes a bead of sweat from her brow and giggles, gathering the makeup into a box. “I do this every year, young mistress.  You’re seventeen, right? I’ve done this for ten years. Surely you’d be accustomed to it by now.”

You shake your head, peeling your eyes off the mirror and rising to your feet unsteadily. “It looks better every year,” you mumble, a shiver of anticipation nestling in your stomach despite your reluctance. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. Now shall we proceed to the parlour?”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Joshua crosses his legs and lets his eyes wander to the clock on the wall.

12:30.

 _She’s half an hour late_ , he thinks dispassionately, nicking a flute of sparkling water from a serving waitress. 

He favours the woman with a small smile. She regards him for a moment longer before continuing on her way, her hands brushing down her apron flusteredly.

“Jisoo-ah,” says Y/N’s father, striding over and offering a hand in welcome. “It’s good to see you again this year.”

Joshua forces his mouth into a polite smile. “Likewise.”

Y/N’s father releases his grip on his hand and turns to the winding staircase, shaking his head slowly. “I apologise for my daughter’s tardiness. I’m sure Seoyeon will have her prettied up in time for lunch.”

He downs a draught of sparkling water, wincing slightly at the resulting sting. “It’s no problem,” Joshua murmurs. His attention drifts away from the conversation as the smell of rhododendrons wafts in from the open balcony. “Pardon me.”

Without waiting for a reply – which would surely earn him a scolding from his father, if he found out  – he makes his way to the open doors, placing the glass flute on a passing tray. The sound of chatter fades into the background as he lifts himself up onto the railing, leaning back onto the wall.

Joshua closes his eyes and lets out a sigh of relief.

Time passes far too quickly. 

All of a sudden, there’s an explosion of sound that wrenches him rather rudely from his nap. He almost falls off the railing before he catches himself, tilting his head forward to identify the source of all the commotion.

It’s you.

 _Just you_ , he corrects himself.

He watches, half-hidden behind the curtain, as you make your way down the stairs, bowing left, right and centre. Your hair – raven-black, and curled elegantly – has been left down, tumbling down the side of your face. Your makeup is minimal, but somehow manages to transform the usual chocolate-brown of your eyes to an alluring liquidy-black.

“Please, it’s my pleasure,” he hears you say. Your voice sounds different; unusually polite, and clipped in a way that suggests distance. “My maid deserves all the gratitude in the world, pulling off a feat like this.” 

A ripple of laughter spreads through the crowd. Joshua rolls his eyes –  _if only they knew –_ and resumes his position on the railing, silently eavesdropping.

“Seoyeon? She works as my attendant. Oh, yes. She’s wonderful.”

“My mother was going off her head. She loves her parties perfect. Caviar? No, thank you. I’ve never really had an affinity for seafood.”

Polite laughter, and then Joshua hears you say something he never thought he’d hear from your mouth.

“Pardon? Oh, Jisoo-oppa? I... I miss him. I mean, I enjoy his company, if only for a few days a year.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

  

“Pardon? Oh, Jisoo-oppa? I... I miss him. I mean, I enjoy his company, if only for a few days in a year.”

The words scald your tongue on their way out, but you resist the urge to gag, schooling your face into what you hope is an embarrassed smile. 

The crowd dissolves into a collection of adoring  _ooh_ s and  _aah_ s.

You’re glad Joshua isn’t here.

Socialising soon proves to be too much. Excusing yourself with a courteous incline of your head, you hurry up the stairs into the library, selecting a thick volume that would hopefully keep you occupied for most the afternoon. Sneaking into the parlour through a side passage, you edge around the crowd and make your way towards the balcony.

The aroma of rhododendrons eases a sigh of contentment from your lips, but before you can settle onto the railing, a voice calls from inside.

“Young mistress?”

You turn, hiding the book behind your back. “Yes?”

Seoyeon offers you a reassuring thumbs-up. “Remember your manners, and do try not to behead the young master. Agreed?”

You nod reluctantly, smiling slightly as the tide of people washes Seoyeon away. The book in your palm is positively itching to be read.

Then you see him.

He’s sitting on the railing, his mouth turned up in amusement. His outfit consists of nothing but a simple suit – black and white, with a pair of immaculately polished shoes. The colour of his hair has changed, as it has every other year; this time, it’s a surprisingly ordinary brown. It sits on top of his head, perfectly styled to reveal an expanse of pale forehead.

“Missed me?”

You scowl, losing all interest in the novel. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

He lowers his gaze, shuffling along the railing until he’s directly in front of you. Patting the spot beside him, he orders, “Sit.”

You cross your arms mulishly. If there is anyone you don’t want to lose to, it’s Joshua Hong. “Why?”

A smirk teases his lips. “Don’t you want to enjoy my company while it lasts?”

You almost decline, but then you catch the alarmed look on his face. Glancing over your shoulder, you spot your mother standing in the archway, immersed in conversation with none other than Joshua’s father, close enough to be in earshot.

Joshua raises his eyebrows purposefully and sits back, waiting.

You direct a final glare at him before joining him on the balustrade. As soon as your fingers open the book, he moves closer and rests his head on your shoulder. Your body tenses as his hair tickles your neck.

“Off. Get off. Right now.”

He bites back an eye-smile, but moves anyway. “What happened to the cute little girl who used to follow me around?”

You roll your eyes. “That was then, Jisoo-sshi. I know better than to trust you,” you say bluntly, mood soured. “Besides, you only let me stay beside you so that you could tease me.”

“Y/N,” Joshua says, sliding off the railing and leaning into you. You cringe back, glueing your eyes on the open page. You can practically  _feel_  your mother’s eyes on Joshua’s back.

“What?”

He leans even closer, his fringe grazing your forehead, and then he’s gone, withdrawing and taking a seat beside you.

You freeze, half in outrage and half in another, less obvious emotion, and then he offers you one of those dumb eye-smiles. You purse your lips as a strange sort of anger gathers at the front of your chest.

“Nothing,” he replies, finally. A smug smile graces his lips. 

“I just like looking at you.” 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

The afternoon rushes past in a whirlwind of polite bows, uncomfortable ballroom dancing and pointlessly expensive gifts.

When you finally manage to extract yourself from the festivities, your feet have suffered through one too many waltzes and your head is starting to spin. 

Escaping to your chambers, you strip the dress off and change into a simple white shirt and denim shorts before plucking a botany book from your bookshelf and navigating your way to the western gardens.

Seoyeon spots you sneaking past the parlour door and snatches at your retreating wrist. “Young mistress,” she says accusingly. 

You treat her to your best puppy-dog eyes. “I can’t stay in there anymore, Seoyeon-ah,” you start, adding a pout for extra effect. “I’ll return later. When my headache subsides.”

She narrows her eyes at you before releasing her grip on your wrist. “I would reprimand you, but that would be out of my place,” she says, frowning slightly. “For your parent’s sake, please keep your promise.”

Nodding emphatically, you lower your head in a bow and skip down the stairs two at a time. After an afternoon like that, you’re willing to sacrifice anything just to have a lungful of fresh air.

And you do, throwing the double doors open with all of your remaining energy, inhaling deeply as the wind hits you full in the face.

The western gardens are arguably the least maintained gardens on the mansion grounds, but something about the wildness of the plants – the untrimmed wild roses crawling along the rain-bleached walls, the sprouts of purple wildflowers peeking out from between the brick walkways – makes it your secret hiding-place, second only to the top-floor library.

It’s also the same place that you’d met Joshua. The legendary Cupid fountain stands, chipped in some rather unfortunate places, in the centre of the garden.

A hush seems to fall over the entire world as you shut the doors behind you, stepping out onto the patio. 

Spring has already begun to draw its fingers through the soil, beckoning the roses out of their reclusive buds. You sit down, tucking your feet beneath you and combing your fingers through the lawn. Tiny green buds, about the size of your pinky nail, peek through the grass.

“Wildflowers,” you whisper to yourself. “So late in season, too.”

You stagger to your feet, brushing your hair out of your face haphazardly. Digging through the portaloo-sized toolshed, you pick out a small knife and a sturdy shovel before heading over to the rose-vines.

Anyone who could have seen you doing something so unladylike would have given you a good earful, but people tended to avoid the western gardens, for whatever reason. 

Working your way around the garden, you cut away the weeds and clear space for the flowers still bursting forth from the soil, singing quietly.

By the time you finish, your entire outfit is splattered in dirt, and some of the offending substance is drying on your face. You pay it no mind as you close your eyes and collapse onto the grass, gasping, your hair in shambles.

Twilight begins to creep over the horizon, throwing its whispering cloak over the sky.

You don’t hear the double doors swing open. You don’t hear his footsteps tread across the grass. You don’t hear him sit down, making barely any detectable sound, beside you.

But you  _do_  hear him mutter, laughing a little:

“This is more like you.”

He observes you for a second before returning his gaze to the darkening sky.

You sit together just like that, Joshua staring off into the unfathomable distance with his arms wrapped around his knees, and you, laying on the ground, breathing in the intoxicating aroma of wild roses. 

Somehow, the serene silence reminds you of simpler times; times when you weren’t constantly at each other’s throats, times when you weren’t always the butt of his jokes, times when you’d sneak out together at the peak of midnight, climb to the top of the enormous oak tree on the southern terrace – fondly labelled as the ‘Grandfather Tree’ – and trace constellations across the sky with your fingers.

The spring of many years past surges back in a tide of rope swings and cherry orchards and stargazing. 

Of scorched cupcakes and odd socks and poor, hungry stray cats that disappeared after the first bowl of cream. 

Of failed guitar lessons and slightly more successful singing lessons and impromptu dance lessons conducted in front of the radio. 

Of tugged heartstrings and Disney movies and falling sleep together on the floor of the library, the warm pulse of candlelight as gentle as a lullaby. 

“Why are you here?” Joshua asks.

You cock an eyebrow at him. “I could ask the same of you.”

“Care to fathom a guess?”

“No.”

“Hey, Y/N,” he murmurs, switching the topic smoothly. He points to a collection of stars right above your heads. You crack one eye open, following his line of sight. “Remember what that one’s called?”

A small smile plays with your mouth, despite yourself. “Thumper,” you recall, the fond memory resurfacing after years of neglect. “Because you thought it looked like me when my teeth were too big for my mouth. It was your favourite.”

The grass rustles as Joshua flops down beside you, his head nestled unnervingly close to yours.

“That one. To the left.”

You cover your mouth with a hand, muffling your laughter. “Totoro. I remember you cried when the little sister got lost. You were such a crybaby.”

He digs an elbow into your ribs, grinning.

“That one?” you gasp, reaching up to gesture at a jumbled mess of stars, one hand nursing your wounded side.

Joshua hums absentmindedly, sneaking a glance at you when he thinks you’re not looking. 

Your hair is missing its polished sheen, tousled by the slim fingers of the wind, but your eyes are brighter than he’s ever seen them. Your face is grimier than any street urchin he’s ever seen, but there’s something about you that makes you...  _you_. 

Something that makes him return every year. 

You turn your head, stalks of mowed grass dusting your hair. “Josh?”

He jolts himself out of his daydream, brain scrambling for an answer. “That one didn’t have a name,” he remembers suddenly. “Because...”

“Because it was the only one that we could never figure out. But we wanted all the stars to ourselves all the same,” he mumbles, gaze flicking to you, to the skyline, and back. 

Lingering. 

“Even if it made no sense.”

You shift your weight to the side, fixing him with an odd look. Never in your seventeen years of life have you ever heard Joshua sound like – like he actually  _enjoyed_ having you around. As far as you’re concerned, you’re his exclusive punching bag, bound to his side by duty.

The moment passes before you can start to wonder. You tuck your head into the crook of your elbow, the jut of your hip digging into the ground. 

Night-time is now an hour old, and it’s beginning to grow cold. Joshua notices you shivering and is halfway out of his jacket when he stops, consumed by a wave of irrational doubt.

“Even if it made no sense,” you whisper, eyelids fluttering shut. 

“But it didn’t stop us from trying.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Joshua glances at you from beneath his eyelashes, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

Dinner is a luxurious affair; the dining table spans the entire length of the room, sporting a sheer white tablecloth and silver candlesticks that smell strongly of vanilla. Serving girls hurry around in the background, sweating profusely. The occupants of the room are dressed in their finest attire, the women and girls clinging onto their suitors’ elbows like leeches.

All except for you.

After Joshua escorted you back to your chambers – half-asleep and properly dishevelled – the expression on your maid’s face when she’d opened the door had been priceless. The woman barely gave him a second to recollect himself before booting him out of the room and going straight to work, clucking like a mother hen.

The clock had ticked past almost an hour by the time you emerged from your room, and maybe Joshua did stare a little when he finally took your arm and escorted you to the parlour.

Just maybe.

Your dark hair is done up this time around, gathered behind your head in an artfully messy bun. A few stray curls frame your face, highlighting the paleness of your skin. The dress is simple; midnight-blue, off-the-shoulder. The hem brushes against your knees.

“A damp towel, young master?”

Joshua snaps back to the present, shaking his head politely. The butler smiles cordially before melting away into the background. You look at him oddly, cocking your head at him.

“Look sharp, Joshua-sshi,” you jab, dabbing your lips imperiously with an embroidered napkin. “I can spot at least six girls who look like they want to maul you in broad daylight. Wouldn’t want to disappoint them. "

Your lack of sensitivity earns you a reluctant eye-smile. “Y/N, the way your potential suitors are goggling you right now...”

Your eyes widen a smidgen before you lower your gaze, hiding your face behind your glass of lemonade. “They won’t approach me if you’re sitting here,” you point out, taking a light draught. “Even though they have no reason to be intimidated.”

Joshua sighs, running his hand through his hair and resting his elbows on the tabletop. It takes all of his willpower to resist the urge to slouch. You cover your mouth, a yawn bringing tears to your eyes.

Dinners like these give you two something else in common; you both think them mind-numbingly boring. Year after year sees you and Joshua sitting alone, either arguing or waiting in terse silence until the night is over.

Seoyeon materialises at your elbow, panting slightly. “Young mistress,” she whispers, leaning in close to your ear, “is it so difficult for you to make conversation? Many of the young men here are more than willing to ask you to dance.”

You tuck your hands in your lap. It may be just your imagination, but the maid seems determined to make this year different. “If they were willing, they would approach me,” you say flatly. “And you know I have two left feet. I can’t dance for my life.”

“Young mistress, forgive me if I am stepping out of line, but the other households are growing suspicious of your rather lukewarm relationship with Jisoo-sshi,” Seoyeon mutters, laying a passive hand on your forearm. A wordless warning. “Accept a dance. Just one should be enough to dispel the rumours.”

You can barely begin to imagine how much energy it takes to sustain a conversation with so many people at once, let alone dance, but Seoyeon’s odd insistence makes you hesitate.

“How, then? Isn’t it court etiquette for a man to ask for the lady’s hand?”

Seoyeon rolls her eyes. “Y/N-sshi, if you would iron out your wrinkles and step forward, then I am certain that you would have the entire court kneeling at your feet,” she says jokingly. “Come along now.”

You glance back at Joshua pleadingly. “Josh–”

Your maid pauses, having already dragged you half out of your seat. “Oh, young master,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing Y/N for a minute?”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Joshua feels his chest tighten as the woman drags you away, but all he can do is sit and watch as your head turns side to side nervously.

_I hope you don’t mind me borrowing Y/N for a minute?_

He hadn’t even been able to give Seoyeon a proper reply. All he had done to stop you was to not stop you at all; he had sent you off with a bored yawn, and then immediately found himself wanting to take it back. 

Take  _you_  back.

It takes a blink of an eye for one of the suitors loitering about to ask for your hand. Joshua can barely stop himself from scowling outright as the young man – Choi Seungcheol, one of your less obvious admirers – bows politely before taking your hand in his and leading you towards the open floor.

The music begins, slowly and quietly at first. Joshua tenses; Seungcheol’s hand appears around your waist, pulling you close to his chest. 

Your face angles up to his, mouth moving in idle chit-chat, and that’s when Joshua tells himself that  _enough is enough._

He isn’t even sure what  _enough is enough_  means, but he lets his feet take himself along the dining table, lets his mouth ask a poor, clueless girl – who looks at him like he’s some vengeful Prince Charming – to dance, lets his hand hold hers as his eyes search for you.

The melody changes; speeds up, the violins turning frenzied as the dancers move to switch partners. Joshua schools his expression into something passably civil as he twirls a woman, probably twice his age if not older, around on her pudgy feet. 

You’re nowhere to be seen.

And then he hears that unmistakable laughter. 

You’re wobbling about on your two aforementioned left feet, cheeks flushed with excitement.

Joshua opens his mouth to call to you, but then the music signals another change and you’re lost to the sweeping crowd.

All of a sudden, none other than your maid glides into his arms, her hair in an uncharacteristic mess. “Jisoo-sshi,” Seoyeon says, a funny-looking smile stretching across her face. Joshua blinks.  _Is she... smug?_ “What a surprise it is to see you here. Looking for the young mistress?”

“It’s a surprise to see you here too,” he says, avoiding the question with practised ease. “Aren’t you supposed to be serving drinks?”

Seoyeon clicks her tongue chidingly.

“Is it so wrong for a girl to seek a dance with a charming young man such as yourself? Besides,” she says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully, “I could help you find what you’re looking for, if only you’d tell me.”

Joshua directs a glare at the maid.  _Conniving woman._

The conniving woman in question snickers, throwing an off-shoulder glance at the orchestra.

“Do come to a decision soon, young master. I sense a switch approaching.”

Joshua finds himself stuck between a rock and a hard place, but then he remembers: _I can’t risk losing another chance to find you._

“Fine,” he whispers angrily, a frown discolouring his mood. “I’m looking for Y/N."

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Seoyeon tilts her head at him, smiling patiently. “I would rather hear the reason from you.”

Joshua feels his heartbeat stutter, his cheeks uncomfortably warm.

“Because –”

_Because we wanted all the stars to ourselves._

And then Seoyeon’s mouth moves, but he can’t hear her words beneath the deafening chatter, and then there’s a chaotic rush of movement and –

It’s you.

“Y/N?”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

You spiral into your next partner’s arms, your eyes squeezed shut to counter the dizziness. Puffing lightly, you reach up to grasp the man’s shoulder, bracing yourself for another pathetically uncoordinated tumble.

Then you hear, “Y/N?”, breathy, slightly hoarse, and your palms turn clammy, blood rushing to your cheeks.

“Josh?”

The violins jump back into gear, guiding the dancers around the marbled dance floor like an enormous puppeteer. Any chance of you evading Joshua’s grasp is lost as a woman’s broad-skirted dress blocks your only escape route.

And so you’re left to worry about your sweat staining the expensive fabric of his suit, and Joshua getting annoyed, and Joshua asking you to pay for his laundry. 

The larger portion of your conscience is trying, rather futilely, to calm your heartbeat as he draws you closer, his hand firm on your waist.

“Y/N,” Joshua murmurs, glancing down at you. You’re filled with an inexplicable sense of gratitude when you realise that he can’t see your face. 

“You were right about the whole two left feet thing. You couldn’t dance if your life depended on it.”

Something about his weird attempt at casual conversation ekes out a gasp of laughter. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” you reply, your hand tightening on his shoulder when you stumble over your own foot, stabbing him with the heel of your shoe. “Sorry.”

Joshua catches you, taking it into stride with a tight smile. “For the good of my toes, please hire an instructor,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating beneath your palm. “And if it’s any help, my own instructor told me that it’s easier if you don’t think too much about it.”

You let the conversation drop, closing your eyes and inhaling deeply. After a few moments of awkward floundering, your movements begin to relax into Joshua’s.

“Better?”

“A little,” you admit grudgingly. “My feet aren’t accustomed to high heels.”

Joshua glances down. “No wonder you’re taller than usual. I thought something was off.”

“You’re stepping into dangerous territory, Hong Jisoo,” you return curtly, deliberately driving your heel into the tip of his loafers with a sharp smile. “I’m almost as tall as you, with or without heels.”

He flicks his eyes up and down your body once before they settle back on your face, one smug eyebrow raised. “I hate to rain on your party, Y/N, but that was  _years_  ago. The last time you could stand eye-to-eye with me was when we were ten.”

A pointed elbow in your side sends you careening into Joshua’s chest. 

He  _has_  grown taller, and he  _has_ filled out a little; almost without you noticing. The odd growth spurt over the years never failed to ignite that familiar spark of jealousy, but it’s only now that you realise that Hong Jisoo has  _changed._

For better or for worse, you’re not sure.

Nevertheless, the realisation gives birth to a tight, knotted feeling in your lower stomach. You push yourself off him with a muttered apology, frowning at your abdomen.  _Maybe it was something I ate._

“You’re still an annoying jerk,” you point out, jabbing your finger into his chest. _An annoying jerk who just happened to win the jackpot in the genetic lottery,_ you add as an afterthought.

Joshua blinks, a small grin brightening his otherwise serious attitude. 

 _Something else I haven’t noticed,_ you think.The Joshua Hong of years past had been everything  _but_  serious; so much so that it had been hard for anyone to simply keep up with him.

He raises your intertwined hands, his palm enveloping yours. “Nothing about you has changed, Y/N. You’re still as rude and unrefined as ever,” he teases, releasing your hand to snake his arm around your waist. A sly smirk makes its way onto his face. 

“If only your chest stayed in proportion with your mouth, hm?”

You flush, one arm instinctively crossing over your chest. “You  _didn’t_.”

Before you can continue, Joshua holds a finger to your lips, both of you trailing to a halt as the music dims.

“Y/N,” he says. You can feel his breath skimming the curve of your neck. “Putting that aside, may I suggest that we leave before I have to suffer through another hopeless toe-smashing?”

You bite your lip and nod, once, before seizing his wrist and dragging him out of the throng.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

You seem unusually set on leading Joshua astray, winding through the endless corridors of the mansion until the sounds of the dinner ball fade away entirely.

The thing is, Joshua doesn’t even mind.

In fact, he’s not sure whether he wants to hold your hand tighter or push you away. 

He’s in the middle of deliberating this when you stop suddenly, releasing his hand and looking back at him.

“Sorry,” is the first word that breaks the fragile silence, followed by a timid, “Was I going too fast? I forgot that your toes are...”

Joshua blinks at your tone – tentative, as if you’re unsure of something. It’s so uncharacteristic of the brutally frank girl he’s known for the past ten years that he almost laughs. 

“Forget it, Y/N,” he murmurs, spotting a recessing window-seat a few feet away. “Join me?”

The alcove is just large enough for two people to fit, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. A stained-glass window arches far above your heads, dappling the moonlight with a kaleidoscope of colour.

You swing your feet childishly, your bangs falling into your eyes. 

“Do your feet hurt? You can take your shoes off if you want to.”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. I have band-aids, and nobody’s around to see you fooling around in your bare feet.”

Joshua stares at you in confusion. You stare back, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

“Do I have something on my face?”

He brushes his bangs out of his eyes, a funny little half-smile tugging at his lips as he glances awkwardly to the side.

“No,” he replies, laughing a little. “I’m just – you can’t even worry about me like a normal girl. You have this habit of worrying... aggressively.”

You kick your heels off and curl your toes into the carpet. “You have this habit of getting under my skin without even trying,” you retort, rummaging through your pocket and extracting a band-aid, nodding at his foot. “Well?”

Joshua bites his lip as you kneel, scowling. “This is what I mean,” he murmurs, hooking his finger over the back of his shoe and peeling it off his foot. “Asking nicely won’t kill you, Y/N.”

You roll your eyes, refraining from replying as you stick the adhesive to his skin. The welts are small, red, and hideously swollen. You open your mouth to apologise – for the second time that night – but quickly reconsider. 

The soft pattering of rain dampens your fiery temper, loosening your shoulders.

Tucking a stray hair behind your ear, you rise to your feet, brushing lint off your skirt. 

“If it’s you, Hong Jisoo, then asking nicely  _will_  kill me,” you say. “Look, if I had a gun loaded with two bullets and got locked in a room with you, Hitler, and Stalin, I’d probably shoot you twice.”

He pretends to be offended. You return to your spot beside him, placing your hands primly in your lap.

When the dust finally settles, Joshua looks at you sideways – subtly. 

He’s been doing that a lot recently; sometimes it’s when you’re just talking or standing around or reading one of your books, but it happens mostly whenever you happen to space out and he knows you’re not paying attention.

Funnily enough, when he takes the time to notice, it’s the small things that irk him. 

The stubborn line of your nose. 

The mole just beneath your ear. 

The rabbit-shaped birthmark tucked away in the crook of your elbow. 

Your habit of chewing your lip whenever you’re thinking.

Small things that he’s allowed himself to forget.

“Josh?” says your voice, faint.

His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth. “What?”

You huff – a short, impatient release of air. “You are possibly the worst conversational partner I have had in a long time, in exception to my three-year-old cousin.”

“Thanks.”

“Pleasure.”

Repressing a yawn, you reach behind your head and remove the pin holding Seoyeon’s intricate bun together, letting your hair fall loosely over your shoulders.

“You know, you don’t have to force yourself to stay here,” you point out. “I was being selfish, dragging you away like that.”

Joshua cranes his neck forward. Your words are starting to slur together, and he can see your eyelashes fluttering closed every few seconds, like you’re trying your hardest to stay awake.

“It was my idea, remember?” he replies. A few rebellious locks of hair obscure your face as you shake your head. He rolls his eyes. “Really, Y/N. If it makes you feel any better, you’re allowed to be selfish once in a while.”

You attempt a frown, but your facial muscles refuse to move properly, so all you can manage is a mildly embarrassing curl of your lip.

You tap the side of your nose. “I’m always selfish, Shua. I’m selfish, and unreasonable, and stubborn, and a million other awful things. I don’t get why you even bother with me.”

Joshua blinks at you. He’s tempted to ask whether you’ve been drinking, because he’s never heard anything like that coming from you. 

“I consider it an occupational hazard,” he says carefully. “Y/N, are you –”

“I don’t drink. You know I can’t hold my alcohol, and I’m an awfully inhospitable drunk,” you cut in, brushing aside his concern. Your vision is hazy, and rubbing your eyes does nothing to alleviate it. “I’m just tired. It’s been an eventful evening, after all.”

He frowns disbelievingly, propping you up against the wall when you start to slump forward. “We should head back. Seoyeon must be worried.”

“We should definitely  _not_  head back,” you mumble, pinching yourself to keep yourself awake. “Let her be worried. I’m not going back in there.”

“Fine. But I need to take you back to your room if you’re falling asleep.”

“I’m not sleepy,” you say sleepily. “Besides, you don’t even know your way back to my room, do you?”

Joshua sighs, finally at a loss for a snarky reply. 

Exhaustion begins to weigh down on your eyelids, the heady smell of dust and Joshua stuffing your head with cotton wool.

“Josh?”

“What?”

“Can I sleep with you?”

“ _What?”_

You turn to him. “I want to sleep.”

“What? But you just said –”

“Sleep with me.”

_Sleep with me._

“Y/N, you... for the love of God,  _think_  about your choice of words,” he groans. “You’re so – what if you said that to someone who wasn’t me?”

You look up at him, your head angled slightly in confusion. “Why would I say it to someone who isn’t you?”

Joshua clenches his jaw.  _Don’t. She’s delirious._ “Fuck, Y/N,” he curses, carding his hand through his hair irritably. “What if I was one of your suitors? What if it wasn’t me who you dragged away? What if I was someone who couldn’t refuse?”

“What if I was Seungcheol?”

Joshua stops himself before he can say more.

He isn’t even sure why he brought up Seungcheol, but the recollection of the boy’s hand on your waist and your oblivious smile – one that has never, ever been directed at him before – sends his stomach into a series of nauseating flips.

The poor guy hasn’t done anything to incur anyone’s ill will; doesn’t have anything to do with the situation, or him, or you.

Hopefully.

So why?

Joshua holds himself very, very still as you blink once, slowly, and surely it’s the exhaustion, surely it’s your bottomless, insatiable curiosity, surely it’s the hope that maybe,  _maybe –_

“What if you were Seungcheol, Josh? What would you do?”

The cogs in his brain grind to a halt, and then his hands reach out to grip yours so tightly that you’re not sure whether he wants to pry you away or wrench you closer.

Your name is barely a sigh on his lips.

Suddenly, he’s so close that you can feel his breath glancing along your face, so close that you can hear something that might be Joshua’s heartbeat, pounding just as fast as yours if not faster, so close that you can smell sunlight and sandalwood and something warm that is purely Joshua Hong.

So close that you feel, rather than see, the intangible tremor that wracks his body when you whisper his name in reply.

_Joshua._

And then he presses a soft butterfly kiss onto your hairline and draws away.

It’s as if you’ve been hurled bodily into ice-cold water; everything is thrown into sharp relief as you gasp, breaking the surface, gasping for air, flailing about for a handhold or a foothold or  _anything._

_I wanted Joshua Hong to –_

Your face goes up in flames

Joshua’s saying something

He looks panicked.

You’re transfixed on the movement of his lips.

Your vision flickers.

And then everything goes black.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

The soft, even sound of your breathing is strangely calming.

Calming enough, as it is, for Joshua to keep the thoughts of what had just happened at a safe distance.

Just barely, though.

Joshua staggers, sinking onto the patch of mattress beside you and burying his face in his hands, leaning heavily on the headboard.

The lethargy had finally caught up to you – you’d fallen into a dead faint, completely and utterly unresponsive.

Joshua had been forced to realise the truth of your words; after a good hour and a half of directionless floundering, he'd given up, located the nearest unlocked bedroom and dropped you into the cloud-soft covers, muscles reduced to jelly as soon as your weight left his arms.

The room is small, though not so much as to be called cramped. It’s humbly furnished; a poster bed, a plush armchair, two bedside tables, a large dresser and a charming vanity. The only meagre source of light in the room comes from a single shaded lamp, resting on top of one of the bedside tables.

Its glow casts everything in a gentle, golden light, softening your features. Joshua catches himself staring and looks away, but it’s not too long before his eyes are back on your face, magnetised by an alien force.

The hushed sound of skin against material catches his attention. His eyes follow you as you sigh, mumbling in your sleep.

_What would I have done, if she didn’t stop me?_

Joshua closes his eyes and exhales slowly. A warm blush fills his cheeks as the preceding events rush forth, exposing the chink in his armour.

He wants to blame it on the alcohol that you didn’t drink, or on the spur-of-the-moment compulsiveness, or on your obvious lack of sleep, or his carelessness, allowing you to stretch his sensibility to its breaking point; something that would make some sense.

Something that would explain why he had almost found himself wanting to –

“Thinking about me?”

The question catches him off guard. Jolted out of his temporary lapse in concentration, Joshua watches in silence as you attempt to sit up, meeting his eyes with a disarmingly sleepy smile.

 _Great._ “Fuck off,” he replies easily, glancing down at the watch adorning his wrist. Barely past 11 o’clock. Leaning his weight on his elbow, he leans over to push you back into the bed. “Stay.”

“Why?”

“Just stay.”

“I’m not a dog, Josh.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, if you’re being like this, then you’re obviously not as sick as I thought you were,” he says, laying the back of his hand against your forehead. “Jesus, Y/N, you’re burning up. Were you this feverish before?”

_Before._

You resist the urge to flinch away, lowering your gaze as he leans closer, muttering under his breath. 

Joshua blinks and withdraws his hand, furtive.

“Y/N?”

You raise your head to meet his gaze, your confusion mirroring his. “I – I can’t remember,” you stutter. “Before, Josh. What did I...”

And then your fingers brush a certain spot on your hairline, and he stiffens.

Your eyes widen, apprehension settling in the pit of your stomach. The search for an answer in Joshua’s face comes to an abrupt end as his expression turns dark; intense. 

Brooding, as if you’ve done him wrong, somehow.

“What did I do?”

Joshua doesn’t respond for a second. “You don’t remember?”

“I –”

_“You don’t remember?”_

You shake your head, dipping your chin.

Then you’re choking on your own breath, eyes jamming shut as Joshua moves in front of you, planting his hands on either side of the headboard, caging you in, and your hands are clammy with sweat and then he says:

“Do you want me to remind you?”

Joshua swears he’s half out of his mind with the most exhilarating sensation of fear when the words leave his mouth, and he’s so sure that you’ll refuse, you’ll push him away, you’ll be disgusted at how much he needs you to say –

_Please._

His eyes open faster than he thought humanly possible because surely that must have been a figment of his imagination.

But then you say it again and Joshua comes crashing back down to Earth; has to swallow a throaty groan as something inside him collapses and he closes the distance between you.

_Finally._

It’s like water bursting out of a dam; all of a sudden, you’re closing your eyes, the sound of Joshua’s uneven breathing fanning the embers in your chest.

His mouth ghosts along the junction of your neck and your shoulder until he reaches the tender spot behind your ear, pressing a kiss there before working his way across your face, leaving the intoxicating feeling of his lips on your forehead, on your nose, on your cheeks, on your eyelids, on your jawline.

And what strikes you, through the haze clouding your vision, is how _gentle_ Joshua is. His lips merely graze your skin, less than hesitant in their exploration but careful all the same; hands never roaming too far, as if there’s an invisible line that he doesn’t want to cross.

Your free hand rises from the mattress to tangle itself in the material of his jacket, pulling at it until it’s hanging off his elbows, exposing the sharp angle of his collarbones.

You realise, belatedly, that he’s backing you up against the headboard. One of his hands drops from your jaw to your side, gripping your fingers with a frantic urgency as he pushes you backwards.

All the while, your name is falling from his tongue, hinting at a question, and  _god, if this isn’t happening, if this is a dream –_

And then you feel him take a single, shuddering breath in, his lips moving against yours – the kind of touch that’s barely there, just a shadow of contact; the kind that drives you to the edge of sanity and back – as he whispers:

“Y/N, I think I might kiss you.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Peeling yourself off the shower floor takes far more effort than you would have been willing to expend.

You push the door open and kick it closed behind you, drawing the towel through the dripping ends of your hair.

It’s uncomfortably humid tonight; taking a deep breath is enough to sate your thirst. Wearing anything more than a shirt and shorts is out of the question. Your third shirt of the night is already starting to stick to you like a clammy second skin.

You sigh and sink onto the bed, burying your face in your pillow.

 _Seoyeon was here earlier_ , you realise, inhaling the watery smell of her favourite bluebell-scented fabric softener. Rolling onto your side with a grunt, you grope blindly through the air until your hand lands on your phone.

The dialling tone rings four times before Seoyeon picks up.

“Young mistress,” she puffs. “Isn’t it a bit late for you to be up?”

“I’m not a child anymore, Seoyeon-ah.”

“I have my doubts. How can I help you?”

You push yourself upwards, leaning back on your elbows. “If it’s not too much trouble –”

Seoyeon interrupts you with a deliberate cough. “Nothing is too much trouble, young mistress. If anything, you’ve been going far too easy on me, considering how much I’m being paid. So?”

You roll your eyes and push your hair over your shoulder. “If you insist,” you murmur. “Can you ask the chef to bring down some warm milk and honey? And some of those egg tarts. You know, the ones with the whipped cream on top – “

A deafening crash drowns the line in noise, followed by someone shouting and Seoyeon whispering, urgently, “I’m so sorry, Y/N-sshi, but the kitchen staff are proving to be extremely uncooperative and –”

But you’re already stopped listening, distracted by an odd thumping sound at your window.

Your  _second-storey_ window.

“It’s fine,” you mumble, unaware that the line has already gone dead. “I’ll be up all night anyway.”

Several horror movie scenarios flash through your minds’ eye as you scurry back, turning on your bedside lamp. The thumping continues. You crouch there, frozen.

Half of you is trying to remember how to defend yourself against a murderer with what you have on hand. A quick once-over tells you that your chances of survival are looking slim.

 The other half is betting on how long it would take until you did something stupid, or suicidal, or both.

Needless to say, it’s not long before your curiosity finally takes over.

Pushing aside your fear, you stride over to the window and shove it open. The glass pane rattles in complaint.

A collection of small, round pebbles rolls off the windowsill.

At first, there’s not very much to see at all. The moon is only half-full tonight, barely illuminating the tops of the trees. Far below, you can spot the lampposts’ warm, yellow light tracing the garden trail like a line of tiny fireflies. The absence of sound makes it easy to distinguish the familiar trickling of the Cupid fountain.

And then something – a _moving_ something – catches your eye.

You lean further out to make sure you’re not hallucinating.

“Joshua?!”

You’ve never gotten dressed so quickly in your life.

Wrenching on a yellow sweatshirt that’s been tossed onto your dresser rather haphazardly, you stumble out of the door, not bothering to put on a pair of shoes.

There’s nothing but the sound of your feet pounding against the carpet, perfectly in sync with the pounding of your heart. A rush of adrenaline has you taking the stairs three at a time. Bolting down the empty corridor with reckless abandon, you glimpse the familiar double doors and screech to a halt, gasping for air.

Take a deep, calming breath that is not deep nor calming in the least.

Push them open, slowly, not daring to step forward.

Only to be grabbed roughly by the waist and pulled forward, your nose colliding painfully with Joshua’s chest. You hear his voice reverberate in his chest as he murmurs something into your hair, his arms releasing you just long enough for him to close the doors as quietly as he can.

And then it’s just you and him.

Joshua pulls away, holding you at arms-length. He’s wearing a blue sweater that looks uncannily similar to yours; with a jolt of realisation, you remember that you’d bought them for each other a few years ago, on a rare Christmas shopping trip.

Then you remember – _I’m supposed to be angry at you_.

So you say the first thing that comes to mind, which is:

“Hong Jisoo, are you _crazy?”_

Your reaction is anything but expected.

Even so, he doesn’t bother computing your response for a good thirty seconds.

You’re wearing 'that’ sweatshirt – the canary-yellow one that you said you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. Even though it’s been almost three years, it’s still too big on you; you’re practically drowning in fabric. The sleeves are too long for your arms, the cuffs reaching past your fingertips.

He blinks again when you wave your hand in front of his face.

“Joshua?”

“Y/N,” comes the automatic reply. He mentally slaps himself for letting his guard down. _You came here for a reason_ , he reminds himself firmly. _An important reason. A really, really important reason._

And even though he knows it, he still can’t help himself.

Returning to his chambers and attempting to forget the feeling of your face so close to his only a few hours ago required some Herculean amounts of willpower. The way you’d said his name scared him and thrilled him in the same heartbeat and – _god, it sounds so much better coming from her mouth._

_Since when could she do this to me?_

You curl your fingers around the cuff of your sweatshirt, waiting.

Something about the silence feels wrong.

It’s not the usual silence you share with him; those are lighter, lacking presence. This one is pressing down on you, so heavy you can almost touch it. It’s thick with tension, each breath costing you a jab to your chest.

“Josh?”

Stepping forward despite every single atom in your body insisting otherwise, you continue, timidly, “Is this my fault? If this is about before, I –”

“Don’t,” he grinds out. He wonders if you’re doing it on purpose; teasing him, coming so close that he can smell bluebells and rain in your hair.  “It’s not your fault, and what happened before is beside the point.”

 _Beside the point_. 

It doesn’t _feel_  beside the point, especially when he steps closer, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder, his hands barely touching yours. You tense, clenching your hands into fists and screwing your eyes shut to block out the warmth of his breath on your skin.

“Hong Jisoo –”

“Joshua.”

_“Hong Jisoo.”_

He sighs. You shiver. “Let me stay like this for a bit,” he murmurs. “Please.”

And you do, even when he drags you down onto the ground and into his lap, facing him. The flutter of his eyelashes keeps throwing your thoughts into disarray. You consider telling him this, but then he pulls you closer and your mind goes silent.

Neither of you seems willing to let go first, even when exhaustion starts lapping at your heels. 

You’re almost appalled at yourself. The you of last year – and the numerous years before that – wouldn’t have been able to even _touch_ Joshua Hong without breaking out in hives, or something equally as repulsive.

_So why now?_

Opening your eyes – _when did I even close them? –_ you lift yourself off his chest, blinking the bleariness out of your eyes until it becomes obvious that Joshua’s fallen asleep.

“Hong Jisoo.”

No response.

“Joshua Hong.”

Silence.

“Joshua.”

You shake his shoulder weakly. 

“Josh.”

You could probably hear a pin drop from a mile away, what with how unresponsive he is. You can’t even hear him breathing. 

 _He may as well be dead for all I know_ , you think bitterly. The only indication that’s he’s still alive is the rising and falling of his chest.

“Shua?”

_Shua._

You haven’t called him that in _years_ ; not since you were seven and he was eight, playing hide-and-seek in the main gardens and reading fairy tales on the kitchen floor.

Joshua stops pretending to be asleep, winding his arms around your waist and burying his nose in your hair, hoping that you didn’t hear the funny strangled sound he failed to hold back. You make a weird little squeaking sound in surprise, wriggling around in a fruitless attempt to free yourself.

“Let me go!” you hiss, a hopeless flush powdering your cheeks pink. “Josh! I said! Let! Me! Go!” You emphasise your point by punctuating each word with a well-placed punch to his shoulder. He doesn’t budge. You wriggle harder.

“Stop moving,” he mumbles, tightening his arms around you.

“No."

“Why?”

“Let me go.”

“Stay still or I’ll kiss you.”

You’re just about to deliver Heaven’s holy retribution in the form of a knee to the golden target between his legs, but then Joshua’s lips brush against your nose and you force yourself to a standstill.

Not that it had taken much persuasion.

“I need to tell you something,” he murmurs. “Listening?”

You nod numbly, once.

Some unused, knotted part inside of you wants to wrap your arms around his torso, fit your head beneath his chin – maybe even kiss him, see how he’d react.

You can’t believe you just thought that.

The silence is crowding you, pressing you towards him, but at the same time squeezing itself between you, forcing you apart.

Your chest hurts.

You realise this feeling; the feeling of dreaded momentousness, the kind of milestone moment that has a distinctive ‘before’ and ‘after’. _Before that happened. After that happened._

But then Joshua says something and you wish that the silence had stayed just long enough to block it out, just long enough that it would hold you together, just long enough that it would be able to tape all the little pieces of your heart back together.

 

“I’m leaving for America tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

You don’t allow yourself to see him off.

Mainly because you don’t want him to see you cry.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

It takes longer than expected to sink in.

Two months, in fact.

It’s on the first Monday that you allow yourself to realise that Joshua isn’t an arms-length away anymore, on the other end of the corridor lying on a bed in urgent need of dusting, or sitting at a special reading desk in the top-floor library that hasn’t been used since he left.

Wednesday, you wait for him to escort you to dinner, slamming the phone down when you realise that you don’t have his phone number, nor the right to call him at all.

The following week, you go grocery shopping with Seoyeon and find yourself browsing the bakery aisle for his favourite sweet-bread.

A depressingly damp Friday morning sees you inviting Seoyeon to watch ‘The Spongebob Movie’ with you, just to fill the empty pocket of space on the couch.

A warm mid-June afternoon, you finally open the door to Joshua’s bedroom and flop onto his bed, burying your face in his pillow and waiting for a scent that’s gone far past its best-before date.

On this particular early July morning, you don’t do any of that. 

You don’t allow yourself to.

Instead, you knock once on Seoyeon’s door before barging in without waiting for her permission.

_Joshua Hong, I am sick of chasing your shadow._

“Seoyeon, I’m going to America.”

**Author's Note:**

> i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you can confidently say "likewise" here because wow joshua is seriously irresistible...
> 
> i might write a sequel because this ended in such a horrible cliffhanger (i'm so sorry for that D:) but if i ever get to it, it'll probably be a while on, sorry c:
> 
> this is also posted on my tumblr which you can find at https://heystobit.tumblr.com/


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